


Scream Hallelujah, Darling

by Fulgaraverde



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Angst, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-03
Updated: 2011-12-03
Packaged: 2017-10-26 20:19:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/287438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fulgaraverde/pseuds/Fulgaraverde
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's such a small, innocuous thing, a coin. It's hard to believe it could cause so much damage. For the X Men Big Bang.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scream Hallelujah, Darling

**Author's Note:**

> Many, many thanks to elipie, who made the wonderful video, found [here](http://jumpercut.livejournal.com/3785.html). It's perfect. Thanks also go to oaktree89 for the beta, and for the encouragement she gave me. It's been a long few months with this thing, and while there were a lot of bumps along the way, it feels great to have it finished and done with. The soundtracks ([here](http://fulgaraverde.livejournal.com/9821.html#cutid1) and [here](http://fulgaraverde.livejournal.com/9153.html#cutid1)) are just little things I made to help with the writer's block; listen to them if you like. Please enjoy.

_There is a moment - short, fleeting, but nonetheless real - where Erik Lensherr believes he is a god._

 _  
_   
_It comes against the stark white of a submarine, this apogee of arrogance, as he lifts Shaw's body using no more than the dead man's cufflinks, the lazy, relaxed curl of his hand all the control he needs. The bloodied coin (once a symbol of the revenge Erik so badly craved - now, a trophy, proof of a promise whispered to himself so long ago) flies into his pocket with only the barest of thoughts towards it. It's so easy, he thinks, as he rips a hole out of the submarine's hull with another errant flick of his hand. It’s adrenaline, and salt air, and the fact that the relief Erik thinks he is supposed to be feeling tastes a lot more like a kind of hunger._   
__

__

_Erik has killed before, and there is little doubt in his mind that, before this war is over, he will most likely kill again. But those are petty, dirty crimes, not like this one. This feels different. Erik has killed before, but Shaw is the only one he cares enough to show off._

 __  
_For just a second, as Shaw hovers over the sand, Magneto appears, the quiet god Erik has been keeping hidden within himself. Erik himself doesn’t look different, but Magneto is in the way he holds himself, the line of his body, the way he lowers himself to the ground. The devil, in the details. For one moment, Magneto is all that he is._

 _And then there is a scream, and the heavy thud of a body and Magneto disappears, replaced swiftly by Erik the man, just as he ever was. Deity is not a pretense he entertains again._

  
**  
  
**

**  
_one: we all live our lives in the confines of fear_   
**

  
Shaw’s body falls gracelessly. No one is watching, least of all Erik. He sprints to the torn aeroplane, and although he cannot see inside, he knows what he will find there. Indeed, Raven is hunched over Charles, who is more still and pale than any man Erik has ever seen, dead or alive.

“He's alive,” Hank says, so Erik doesn't have to ask.

Raven is crying; Sean throws up in the sand. Erik looks wildly from one to the other, his eyes resting anywhere but on Charles, because this is not something he can stand.

“What happened?” he demands, caught between fury and something else entirely. Moira, whom he had forgotten was here, is the one who answers.

“He was shouting at you, and then he just started _screaming_.” Although Moira doesn't say it, everyone hears the accusation. _You did this._

Raven looks up at Erik and her eyes grow wide at the sight of the helmet. “You look like him now,” she says, after a pause. “Like Shaw.”

Erik scrambles around for a retort, but nothing comes. He frowns, but the helmet stays on.

“Hank, can you...” Erik starts to say, but he stops, because something's different. It takes him a long moment to work out what it is, and when he does, half of him doesn’t believe it. The other half has almost been expecting it. These humans are like frightened children; their actions are easy enough to predict. If you cannot see the thing that scares you, it no longer exists.

He steps outside, although he doesn’t have to. Metal is something Erik knows (on occasion, the only thing) and he doesn’t need to see the turrets move to feel them pointing at him.

Alex is the one who follows him out. He looks out to the ocean, following Erik’s eyes. Erik waits for him to see it.

“Oh, shit.”

“Something like that.”

“You got a plan?” Alex asks - which is when Erik realises that, without Charles, he is the one they will turn to.

Erik looks to his right, where Shaw’s people are talking and pointing. So they have noticed, too. He turns back to Alex and grins. “Something like that. Get back to the others; make sure everyone is ready to leave. Stay together. Hank can carry Charles.”

Alex nods and starts to jog back towards the plane. Erik moves back towards the submarine, past Shaw’s forgotten body. The missiles begin their countdown.

“You’re Azazel?”

Azazel nods.

“You can teleport.” It’s a statement rather than a question, but Azazel nods anyway.

Ten seconds.

“Will you help us?”

Azazel smiles, a cold, calculating little smile, and Erik tamps down the bubble of anger it raises. He is not the one with the power here.

Five seconds.

“You killed him, then?” Azazel gestures lazily to Shaw, like he has all the time he wants.

“Yes.”

“Then I will help you.”

There’s a low, collective rumble as the missiles launch. Erik watches them for a moment, almost mesmerised. “Get together,” he shouts at Alex, without taking his eyes away. He waits until the last moment, and then throws his hand up. The missiles stop, enthralled to a new master. Erik thinks about the faces of the humans, what they must think. He laughs to himself. Maybe they’re not so far off. Three, four, five of the missiles turn around, face back the way they came.

“Erik!” A voice, either Moira or Raven.

“They sent us a gift,” he says, and it’s as if he’s back in the submarine, that lack of feeling. “It would be impolite not to send one back. How many ships do you think are out there? Eight, maybe? Ten? Wouldn’t want anyone to feel left out.” Three more missiles turn. He reaches out with his free hand and it Azazel takes it without hesitation. The metal is not the only thing with a new master.

Erik holds them there for few moments, contemplating. Not for the first time today, he thinks of how easy it would be. The metal (for that is all it is to Erik – shape and intent don’t matter) spins with a flick of his wrist, dances to his tune.

He smiles, a smile filled with a thousand different things.

“Now!”

\---

Erik swears he can feel the heat on the back of his neck as they land. His breath comes hard, the adrenaline surging and fading, and he drops Azazel’s hand and vomits into the grass.

“Shit, we’re actually alive,” Alex says, and Sean, a little green, laughs nervously along with him. “But that was fucking _rough_ ,”he complains. “How do you do that all the time?”

“Your body isn’t used to it,” Azazel says absently. “The sickness will pass.” He turns his curious, unsettling gaze on Erik. “When you are ready, you will find us.”

Erik, still hazy from the trip, isn’t sure if it’s meant as a question, but he nods.

“Good.” And then more wisps of smoke, and Azazel and the others are gone.

The sun is shining, and Erik can smell flowers and hear a river somewhere behind him, and he almost forgets about Charles. Almost. But then Hank moves into his view, Charles’ limp form cradled in his ridiculous blue arms, and if possible he looks worse than before.

“Not to, you know...does anyone know where we are, exactly?” Hank asks, and everyone looks around wildly, so caught up in the improbable _how_ of their survival that they have yet to consider the _where._

“I know where we are,” Raven says quietly, to a chorus of relieved sighs (and one ‘thank fuck for that’ from Alex.) “Charles used to like to come here sometimes. The mansion’s maybe ten minutes that way.”

“How’d he know where to go?” Sean’s question makes everyone uneasy, not least of all Erik.

“Let’s just be glad he did. We need to regroup.” Erik has no plan. For once, he can’t see further down the road.

“Hey, Moira, you alright? You don’t look so good.” Sean looks worried, and Erik realises that she hasn’t spoken since they landed. Sean is right – she looks terrible, and Erik guesses it’s more than the (admittedly unsettling) journey.

“I...don’t...” Moira starts, tripping over the words like she’s forgotten how to form them. She closes her eyes, shakes her head and tries again. “I need to call the CIA...I need to tell them what happened. Charles... oh god, Charles, we need to get him to a hospital.”

“No!” Anger greets Erik like an old friend, twining around his shoulders. “We are supposed to be _dead._ Somebody ordered those missiles fired – for all we know, it _was_ the CIA. They’ll hope we’re dead, but they saw the Azazel. The moment we go above ground, they’ll find us. The longer we can stay hidden, the safer we are.” He turns to Hank. “Can you help Charles?”

“Um...yes. I mean, I think. There are medical supplies at the house – Charles bought them, just in case. And I should be able to repurpose my scanners.”

Erik nods, satisfied, and starts walking. He doesn’t look back, but he knows that Raven is the first to start following and that Moira is the last, neither of which is unexpected. Raven falls into step beside him, and twice she begins to speak but thinks better of it.

Erik doesn’t speak, only trudges on. __

\---

The machine is of Hank’s own design, and Erik therefore regards it with inherent suspicion. He watches, arms crossed, as Hank skitters between his machine and Charles’ still form.

It is hours later by now, and they are the only ones left. Alex and Sean left first, one after the other, as the rush faded and they became clumsy and sore. Moira lasted longer, but not by much, and even Raven eventually succumbed to the stresses of the day and left for her own bedroom. Hank occasionally needs a second pair of hands, though, and the potent combination of adrenaline and the vapours of sleep is one Erik is familiar with.

“Structurally, everything's fine,” Hank announces after a long while, passing an ultrasound wand over Charles's temple. “There’s no visible damage, nothing that would suggest any sort of problem.” Erik isn't quite used to hearing Hank sound so self-assured. “But, his brainwaves are off.”

“What does that mean?”

“We know that mutant brainwaves are different from humans anyway – there are differences in the delta and beta waves, which indicates that – you know what, it doesn’t matter – but Charles’ are different even from other mutants. There’s almost no alpha wave, and much higher than normal gamma activity. But that could be normal for Charles, or it could mean there’s a problem.”

Erik looks at Hank blankly.

“Right, sorry. An alpha wave – that’s what you see in people who are unconscious, or in a coma. Charles’ is barely registering on the scale – he should be wide awake.”

“But he's still unconscious.”

“Yes.”

“Any idea when he might wake up?”

“It could be five minutes from now. Or it could be never. His brain thinks it's damaged, it's got to work at its own pace.”

Erik nods unhappily.

\---

  
“Erik?” Moira says, and he starts awake abruptly.

“Never sneak up on a trained killer, Moira,” he replies. On the bed beside him, Charles' eyes are still resolutely shut.

Moira laughs briefly, although Erik wasn't joking. “How is he?” She nods in Charles direction.

From here, it looks as if Charles is only sleeping, although it does little to sate the guilt that's gnawing at Erik.

“Physically fine,” he answers. “Beyond that, Hank doesn't know.”

“What happened, Erik?”

He considers the question for a moment, and then withdraws the coin from his pocket and tosses it at Moira. She catches it, just.

“That killed Shaw,” he says, and a hint of pride bleeds into his voice. “Charles was in his mind. He felt it happen.”

Moira winces. The coin floats between them, turning slow circles in the air, and then flies back into Erik's hand.

“Hank's theory is that Charles' mind was tricked into thinking it was damaged, because of what he felt.”

“Could that really happen?”

Erik shrugs. “Hank seems to think so. Someone with Charles' abilities... anything's possible.” Worry writes itself across Erik's features, despite his best efforts. He doesn’t trust Moira (not that this is much of a slight – Erik can count the people he trusts on one hand) and even an admission of feeling seems too much like a weakness. But Moira looks at Charles with the same expression, and for an instant he feels a surge of kinship.

“Do you mind if I stay a while?”

He shakes his head, and Moira sinks into a chair.

“You took off your helmet,” she remarks.

“There wasn’t much point in keeping it on.”

Moira is quiet, and for a while Erik thinks that’s the end of the conversation. It isn’t.

“Would you have done it, Erik?” she asks, with a strange inquisitiveness that doesn't match the atmosphere in the room. “Would you have killed them?”

“They would have killed us.” Erik doesn't hesitate. “One missile would have devastated that beach. Two would have annihilated it. They sent fifty.”

“That isn't an answer.”

“In a second,” he says. “Without even thinking. Is that what you want to hear?”

“I don't think that's true.”

“Then why ask the question?”

“I think you're a better man than you think you are, Erik.”

“You don't know me.” Everything about him tightens – his whole body poised, the muscles in his jaw taut. The anger is never far from the surface; Erik had imagined that it would dissipate, but all that happened was it had become that bit less controllable.

“I know that the only man you killed today was one you hated. You could have killed thousands more – but instead, you saved all our lives.”

“Saved us for what, I wonder?” Erik mutters bitterly. “Your own people tried to kill you, Moira. Given another chance, they’ll try again – but not before they get as much information from you as possible. And who’s to say Shaw was working alone? Even if he was, that telepath of his won’t be happy he’s dead. And then we’re fighting a war on both sides. One wants to capture us, and the other would just be happy to see us dead. We need a plan. I don’t have one; do you?”

“We’ll think of one,” Moira promises, and Erik scoffs, then stifles a yawn.

“Go to bed, Erik. I’ll stay with Charles. You need to sleep.”

Erik looks at Charles for a moment, but nods grudgingly. “I’ll come back in the morning.”

The walk across the house is a long one, and Erik’s bedroom is sparse and unwelcoming at best. It was not somewhere he had expected he would be returning to after today, and he travelled light in any case. The helmet stares out at the room with wide eyes, but Erik barely notices. He falls onto the bed fully clothed. He doesn’t sleep well.

\---

All together, it takes a little over five days for Charles to wake up. Erik actually spends comparatively little time in Charles’ room over this time: Raven spends most of her time there, and either blames Erik or pities him depending on the time of day, neither of which he can stand; the others drop in for an hour or so at a time, to keep her company. It’s too passive for Erik, though, too powerless, and although he makes sure to walk past every few hours, he spends most of his time cloistered away with Hank (whom he starts to realise is much, much more intelligent than even Charles gave him credit for) or Moira (and although he still doesn’t trust her, and they argue most of the time, she’s a decent strategist) or both, trying to formulate the threads of a plan. Hank’s anxiety levels rise with each hour and then with each news broadcast (he flinches whenever someone says ‘mutant’, which is at least twice a minute, although no-one has much of an idea how they know to call them that) so that by the time Charles wakes up, Erik can barely stand to be around the raw, frenetic nerve he’s become.

As it happens, Erik is asleep at the crucial moment, after a session with Hank and Moira that lasted until the sun came up. Alex is tasked with waking Erik, and although he grumbles and mutters that it’s supposed to be Sean’s turn - and really what with Sean’s power basically making him into a human foghorn he’s much better suited to the task - he gets up and does it anyway.

Erik is less than pleased to be woken at the best of times; when he’s only been asleep for a couple of hours he’s even worse. Alex understands this, and so as soon as Erik opens the door, thunderous expression forming, Alex is sure to give him the news as quickly as is humanly possible.

“Charles is awake.”

It does the trick. Erik stops, all of his annoyance gone in a second.

“I’ll be right there.”

He arrives a minute or so later, hastily dressed. Charles looks tired, exhausted actually, but, crucially, _awake._ Sean, as animated as ever, recounts the tale of their escape as Charles smiles encouragingly at him. He catches Erik's eye and Erik grins at him.

“How is he?” Erik asks Hank.

“Perfectly capable of answering questions by myself,” Charles says, and Erik almost laughs.

“Nice to have you back, Charles,” he says, and it's light enough but he means it.

“Good to be back. Sean's been filling me in on all your heroics, Erik.”

Erik frowns, although it only slightly dampens his mood. It makes him uneasy when he thinks about it, that day - because no matter what, the negatives far outweigh the positives. “It was nothing.”

“It totally wasn't, though,” Sean says enthusiastically, and Erik takes a moment to remember that he's not much more than a child. “You were awesome, Erik. Kind of scary, but still. Awesome.”

Charles laughs lightly. “Well, that's always good to know, Sean.” He yawns.

“You'll be tired for a while,” Hank supplies helpfully. “It would be better if you slept.”

Alex snorts, and Erik can see 'that's what usually happens when you're tired' forming, but Charles merely nods.

“That sounds like an excellent plan,” he says. “Would you all mind?”

“Of course not,” Raven says, beaming. “We're all just glad you're okay, Charles.” She hugs him before she leaves. Alex nods in agreement, and Sean claps Charles on the shoulder.

“See you later, man,” he says, and follows the others out.

“We'll talk later,” Hank says, and Charles nods, and then it's just Erik.

“I think Sean's rather impressed with you, Erik,” Charles says, sounding mildly amused. “He tells an interesting story.”

“He's young. He's still got a lot to learn.”

Charles murmurs in assent. “You're not wearing the helmet,” he murmurs, and his tone is innocuous enough, but Erik flinches. He hasn't touched the helmet since he took it off - it sits in his room, waiting, a reminder that there is much, much worse to come. That although he stayed, for now, it doesn’t mean he is _staying._

“Why didn't you just let go, Charles?” Erik asks, a stab at vindication. “You weren’t supposed to... You should have let go.”

“You couldn’t have known this would happen, Erik.” Charles smiles, but there’s a something broken about it, like he knows it’s probably a lie, and what Charles is really saying is _I forgive you,_ and Erik hates him just a little for it.

“Charles, I...” he says, and Erik isn’t sure how the sentence ends, with an apology or a confession or neither, and he doesn’t find out.

“Don’t.” The bite of anger in Charles’ voice is almost a relief, because it’s something Erik knows, something he can understand, but it’s gone before he can be glad for it. “How does it feel, now that he’s dead?”

Erik shrugs uncomfortably. “The same,” he says, measuring the words in his mouth. “It needed to be done. It doesn’t change anything.”

“Doesn’t it?” __

“There’s still a war to be fought, Charles, and I still mean to fight it. It doesn’t change that.”

“It changes _you_ , Erik,” Charles says, like it’s the simplest thing. “This... _thing_ has been curled up inside you for so long I don’t think you know who you are without it.”

“Who says it’s gone?” Erik says. As a boy, freshly freed and swearing revenge, Erik had shaped himself around the rage and pain, until they seemed as though they had always been there. These are not merely things that drive him; they are part of his architecture.

“I’m tired, Erik,” Charles says, turning away from him, “and completely uninterested in arguing with you.”

Erik nods, feeling almost as exhausted as Charles. Charles would do this differently, he thinks, if the roles were reversed. A touch, maybe, something that would convince Erik to let go of some of his regret. Charles has a way with those things that Erik never will.

“It’s good to see you feeling better, Charles,” he says, and slips from the room.

\---

At first, Charles doesn’t quite notice it is missing, although that seems absurd once he does. He’s tired and pained and his head is ringing so terribly he’s barely thinking, so it doesn’t seem unwarranted that the low hum he usually hears, the thoughts pressing at the edge of his mind, aren’t there. With so few people around it’s been quieter than usual in any case; he assumes they are simply being drowned out. It is only later, when the pain subsides and he begins to reach out, foggy tendrils of thought, the way he’s done a hundred thousand times before, that he realises there’s nothing there. It’s a stillness he hasn’t felt since long before he can remember. It’s quiet.

It’s never quiet.

His breathing becomes quick and panicky, and he tries to push further, to reach someone, anyone, hoping that he will find them, hiding from him somehow. But there is none of the familiar flitting around the periphery of his mind. It’s like Erik all over again, a barrier he cannot breach. The silence is crushing, claustrophobic – it pens him inside his own mind, a smaller space than he had ever imagined. His thoughts rub painfully against each other.

There’s a knock at the door, and Charles could swear it is loudest thing he’s ever heard. Ten seconds later, it comes second only to Hank’s voice.

“Charles?”

It feels like his skull is being cracked clean down the middle. Charles lets out a sharp yelp of pain and holds his head in his hands.

Hank knocks again. This hurts a little less than before, but it’s like saying being stabbed hurts less than being shot.

“Charles, are you alright?”

“Come in,” Charles manages, and if it didn’t hurt so much already he might have been surprised to realise that his own voice does not add to his pain.

“Great,” Hank says, opening the door. “I wanted to have a word about...” He stops abruptly when he sees Charles. Hank will never look the same again, Charles knows, but some of the animality is gone from him, his features slightly more human.

“It’s okay,” Charles says, though it clearly isn’t. Each word hurts a little less than the last one, but they still hurt. “Just try to speak softly, please?”

“Um, okay,” Hank says in a ridiculous stage whisper. “Is that better?”

“Very slightly,” he replies, although he’s still holding onto his head like it’s about to split open. “Now, what was it you wanted?”

“Oh, I just thought I’d see how you were. I had a couple of questions to ask.”

The pain begins to subside, becoming more of a dull ache, although Hank’s whisper still has the volume of a jet engine. Charles’ fingers rest against his temple, and he looks for Hank’s mind.

Nothing.

“Ask away.”

“Well, I think we’ve already established that you’re in some pain,” Hank says, “but that’s not unexpected, given what happened. Just making sure everything else is in working order.”

“Well,” Charles begins to say, but he’s unsure of whether to tell Hank or not. “What... happened, Hank, do you think it could have affected my mutation?”

Hank frowns. “Theoretically, I guess so. Your mind was injured. And your mutation relies on your mind, so yes, it could have an effect.”

“And what do you think – would the effects be permanent?”

“Is something wrong?”

Charles sighs. Hank, he thinks, a man of science as much as Charles is, is the most practical, the least likely to overreact. “I can’t read your mind,” he admits, and if he was expecting any sort of relief for sharing, it never comes, “or anyone’s, really. I try and there’s nothing there. Just...silence.”

He expects a little shock, at least, but there’s nothing in Hank except disappointment. Defeat, maybe. “I wondered... when we did the electroencephalograph, the results didn’t make any sense,” he says, logical as ever. “I thought it might be something to do with your mutation. I mean, if your mind somehow realised that was what was causing your pain, it could shut it off, almost like a repressed memory, only a whole part of your subconscious.”

“You mustn’t tell them. Any of them,” Charles says adamantly.

Hank shuffles uncomfortably. Lying is not one of his strong suits.

“They don’t need to know, Hank. Not yet.”

“Okay,” he agrees, reluctantly. “But Charles? I don’t know if there’s anything I can do.”

Hank leaves Charles with his thoughts, and nobody else’s.

 **  
_two: we fall through empty corridors and talk in useless metaphors_   
**

It manifests in strange ways, Charles’ lack of power. The headaches, great spinning fireworks in his head, are not unexpected, but there are other, more subtle things. Erik is suddenly able to beat him at chess, a feat he takes endless joy in repeating. He finds it difficult to interpret other’s emotions – something he has never had to do. His problem with sound varies with startling regularity, depending on whom he speaks to and what they say. At times the slightest sound overwhelms him – the creak of a floorboard, a laugh, even a simple ‘good morning’ can leave him gasping. Other times, the silence of his mind is so cavernous, so echoing, that Charles has to ask people to repeat themselves to be able to hear them.

“Charles, are you listening to me?”

“What?” He sits up in his chair. “No, sorry. Continue.”

Moira looks at him disapprovingly, but takes the invitation. “ _Anyway_ , as I was saying, the pro-human rallies are spreading. We’ve got serious unrest in Chicago, Boston, Baltimore – and New York, of course. That’s five nights in a row now.”

“Can we stop calling them ‘pro-human rallies?’” Erik says, exasperated. “These are anti-mutant riots. The only reason the humans are calling them pro-human _anything_ is because the word mutant scares them. “

Charles detests these mindless hours that have filled the weeks since Cuba. They’re supposed to be spent strategising, preparing for a possible attack, and that would be bad enough, but all that ever seems to happen is Moira and Erik arguing with one another, as if anyone needed supplemental evidence that those two would never get along. Charles takes every opportunity not to sit in on these sessions, because honestly, he gets tired of acting the referee.

He misses what Moira says to Erik, but whatever it is, Erik doesn’t like it. His jaw clenches, and for a second he looks like he’s going to say something, but instead, he gets up and leaves wordlessly. The door slams behind him.

“He’ll never listen to me,” Moira complains. “I’m too human for him.”

Charles nods. However unfortunate, it’s the truth.

“He won’t take a word of advice from me, because he’s always thinking, ‘what if she’s on their side?’”

“He’s Erik,” Charles offers, by way of an explanation. “Trust was never something he learned.”

“He trusts you.”

“To a degree,” Charles agrees, giving a half nod, “More than he trusts the rest of you, perhaps. But not completely. I’m afraid the only person Erik will ever trust completely is himself.”

Moira looks back at the map Hank drew for them (large, not especially accurate, but good enough to suffice) and wonders, briefly, if Erik might not have the right idea. “It’s terrible, Charles. They’re saying that there are gangs in Chicago, kidnapping people they suspect of being mutants and beating them to try and get them to use their powers. They’ve found twelve bodies so far.”

“If they drown, they’re not a witch?”

Moira nods, looking queasy. “That seems to be the idea.”

“And Erik is, of course, outraged, as usual.”

“Were you listening at all while we were talking, Charles?” Moira says, mildly annoyed. In all honesty, he wasn’t – keeping up with the rigors of conversation is something he’s not quite mastered, and occasionally he allows himself the luxury of not trying. “With the sentiment, yes,” Moira continues, “But so far, the victims all seem to be human, so he doesn’t so much care about that. He still thinks it’s enough to attack, though.”

“Ah, yes. That, I heard. I’m not surprised. Erik has never defended when he can attack. He doesn’t like it. I’ve played enough chess with him to know that.”

“Something else he didn’t learn to do?” Moira says, and Charles laughs.

“Yes, I suppose so.”

“He thinks we have the element of surprise.”

“He’s right about that. Most of the mutants out there are probably in the crowds. I think we’ve yet to actually see one out in the open.”

“Most of them look like everybody else,” Moira agrees. “The ones that don’t - they know they have to hide.”

“Erik doesn’t want to attack nearly as much as he wants you and I to agree that we should,” Charles says, thinking. It’s not nearly as easy these days, working in such a small space, but he tries to make up for it. He is allowed these small imperfections without suspicion, under the guise of not yet being back to his full strength. “We need to give him another option. What would you do?”

“Lie low. Stay quiet. If they don’t find any mutants, things will go back to normal soon enough. We don’t want to be the ones to start this war.”

“Ah, but Erik would argue that the war has already begun. And what if they do find someone? What if the next person they abduct _is_ a mutant, what then?”

“We cross that bridge when we come to it.”

“That’s not an answer he’ll like, unfortunately. But I’ll speak to him.” Charles gets up to leave, but turns back at the last second. “Any word yet on how this leaked?”

Moira nods. “It was fifteen men aboard the USS _Gearing_. They announced it on the radio this morning. They were the closest to the shore. Their CO ordered them not to tell anyone, but they phoned their families when they reached shore. They wanted to warn them.”

“And neglected to mention that we were on their side, of course. Mutant is mutant, it seems,” Charles adds. He tries to be optimistic, really, he does, but the world has been making hard for him lately.

\---

Erik is in the library, unsurprisingly. He likes it there, likes the quiet and the history. Knowledge is power. He’s working his way through the interesting ones, but that’s not why he’s here today. He’s trapped here, this ridiculous gilded cage of a house, and it’s beginning to get to him. The news gets worse each day, but he can’t do anything about it from here. And as much as he wants to be out there, to begin the fight in earnest, he can’t quite bring himself to go.

“You should be kinder to Moira,” Charles says, from somewhere behind him. “She only wants to help.”

“She doesn’t belong here, Charles,” Erik replies, without turning away from the window. “She isn't one of us; she doesn’t understand.”

Charles sighs, exasperated. “What would you have me do, Erik? Send her back to the CIA?”

“Maybe,” Erik admits. What the humans would see as a simple return of a hostage, Erik envisions as an opening salvo, a shot across the bow. “If she could be convinced to... _forget_ where we are.”

Charles balks at the suggestion. “No. I won’t do that, Erik.” _I can’t, anyway. “_ She wouldn’t tell them, memories intact or otherwise.”

Erik has the decency to feel guilty for half a moment, but he keeps his eyes trained on the horizon until it passes. He turns, and Charles is standing exactly as he imagined – in the doorway, hands buried in pockets, disapproving look on his face. Erik smiles, despite himself. The predictability is almost comforting. Charles moves into the room, sits heavily in an armchair, and Erik copies his movements.

“She wouldn’t want to.” Erik’s tone softens briefly, but he soon corrects the mistake. “But she’s one of them. She’ll always be one of them. Moira can be mutant-friendly all she likes, but she’s still human. And they’ll use that against her. This goes badly for us, and she can just go back. They'll welcome her with open arms. Meanwhile, we're dead. Or worse. You think she wouldn’t give us up?”

  
“I do.” Charles lifts his chin defiantly.

“This is war, Charles. Don't be naive. People form groups, and when they find another group lacking, they attack. That’s how humanity works. It’s how it’s always worked. There are only two sides. Everyone has to pick one. Including Moira.”

“Oh, Erik, you and I both know this stopped being about Moira a long time ago,” Charles says, and maybe he was annoyed before but now he’s just disappointed.

“And yet we still seem to be talking about her,” Erik replies, with a humourless smile.

“There’s only a war if we start it,” Charles continues. “These protests will go away on their own, if we let them. But you can’t do that, can you?”

“It’s already a war. We didn’t start anything. They did, the moment they tried to have us killed on that beach.”

“They have no proof we even exist! But you want to give them all the proof they’ll ever need, Erik, and you want to do it with anarchy.”

“Not anarchy, Charles. Revolution.”

“There has to be another way,” Charles says, and he’s pleading now, though he knows Erik made up his mind about this long ago. “Isn’t diplomacy worth the effort?”

“Diplomacy get us nowhere on this, Charles,” Erik says, no ifs or buts about him. “The world doesn’t want to change. We have to make it.”

“Yes, but...” Charles begins, but pain flashes through him and he loses the rest of the thought. Most of the time, he manages to disguise these flares, but they still occasionally take him by surprise.

“More headaches?” Erik says, frowning (and looking more than a little guilty), which is how Charles realises he’s not as good at hiding them as he thinks he is.

“It’s nothing,” he insists, though even as he says it the pain comes again, and he winces.

“Lying doesn’t suit you, Charles.”

“Hank says they’re normal.” Charles shrugs. “They’ll go away on their own.”

Erik looks at Charles sceptically. “You should talk to him again. See if there’s anything he can do.”

Charles nods to placate Erik, although he has no intention of taking his advice. But then, another flare hits and Charles grimaces and wonders if Erik might not be right.

\---

“Charles!” Raven is the first to notice him in Hank’s lab - Hank himself is much too engrossed with his microscope, examining something in a dish and muttering to himself.

  
”I can come back if you two are busy,” Charles offers, but Raven shakes her head.

“I was just going,” she says, sounding almost disappointed, and while Charles makes a mental note to try and make more time for her, he doesn’t think that’s why she’s disappointed. “I promised Alex we'd train together today, but I thought I'd drop in on Hank first. How's it going with Erik and Moira?”

“Difficult. Trying to get them to agree to anything...”

Raven laughs. “I think I can imagine. See you for dinner?” she asks, and smiles when Charles nods. “Good. I think Sean’s starting to forget what you look like, all three of you.”

“Well, I can’t speak for Erik or Moira, but I will endeavour not to be forgotten.”

That seems to make her happy, he thinks, and she leaves with a little more spring to her step. Hank murmurs something that sounds like 'goodbye,' after her, but his eyes stay trained on his work until she leaves.

“The plans for Cerebro?” he asks, and Charles thinks he detects a hint of a blush in his blue cheeks. Out of deference to his friend, he doesn't comment on it.

“Yes, I thought I'd see how they were coming along.”

This is Hank’s first, and possibly his only, plan. Theoretically (a word he likes; a shield to hide behind in case of failure) it’s both brilliant and simple: with a few tweaks, his original creation can be used to coax Charles’ abilities out from the hidden recesses of his mind. Hank shifts a few things around, looking for some clear space, and pulls some sheets of worn drafting paper out from one of his many drawers. He flattens them out and Charles studies them thoughtfully.

“The improvements we discussed?”

“All included,” Hank replies, nodding and pointing to several points where the drawings are accompanied by his cramped handwriting. “I had to modify the designs of one or two, but the functionality is the same.”

“Ah, yes, I see,” Charles mutters. “And you definitely think we need to build it indoors this time?”

Hank nods. “Some of the new components are too delicate to be left outside. We’ll need to find somewhere inside the house.”

“We may not have to look for very long. I've been reading through some of my stepfather's old papers - Before he died, he was expanding the bunkers he built below the house. I think I may have found one large enough for our purposes.”

“You do?” Hank says, and for once he sounds excited, maybe even happy. Since his original model was lost, he's mourned it just a little - it was brilliant, after all, a peak of creativity. “I can't go right now - this sample...but after dinner, maybe, we could take a look?”

“Certainly,” Charles nods. “The sooner we can start building, the better.” He pauses, as Hank looks between his work and Charles nervously. Charles follows his eyes - the liquid in the dish is a bright, fluorescent green, much like the serum Hank had proudly shown him in the days before its completion. “Oh, Hank,” Charles says, and Hank frowns at the vein of pity, “is that wise?”

Hank looks at him evasively, but Charles perplexity (for he’s not sure exactly what the look means) must pass for something sterner, and in the end he sighs and says, “I thought, if I could find where I went wrong... You don't understand, Charles. I can't be like this forever, I just can't.”

Hank's beastliness is still receding, slowly but surely - but while his face is more human and his body less stocky, he is definitely still more beast than man, and will almost certainly stay that way. Charles' problem, while just as keenly felt, is at least invisible.

“Genes don’t tend to like being tampered with, Hank,” he cautions, and then turns back to the plans as if he had said nothing. “These panels - remind me what they do?”

“In theory, they work like a satellite dish. They should focus your brainwaves, making it easier for you to locate your telepathy,” Hank says, for what is clearly the fourth or fifth time. He pauses. “Thank you, Charles.”

  
“For what?” Charles replies, and for a moment the question seems worryingly genuine. Not for the first time, Hank wonders about the full extent of the things Charles has lost. “Do you think it’ll work, Hank?”

“It’s possible.” That’s Hank, always has been: maybe, possibly, might. When he steps outside of those, it seems, he’s always wrong. “If what I think is happening, actually is...if your brain is...”

“Like a radio tuned to the wrong frequency, yes, I think you’ve said that before,” Charles snaps, and then looks immediately apologetic.

“Well, yes,” Hank stumbles, caught a little off guard. “If that’s right, then it’s just a case of finding the correct frequency, which is exactly what our modifications are designed to do. But,” Hank continues, beginning to sound worried, ““This...Cerebro, it's designed for someone with some control over their abilities. The modifications will help, but it’s dangerous, Charles. Once you start using it, there’s no way to tell what will happen. Are you sure you want to do this?”

“You have your vices and I have mine,” Charles says in reply. His eyes drift back to the serum, and a pang of guilt rides high in Hank’s chest. “Would you stop, if I asked you to?”

Hank’s answer hovers on his tongue, although they both know what it is. “No.”

“Then you have your answer.”

Charles traces a finger over the blueprints and smiles weakly. He walks away without a word, like he’s forgotten why he was there to begin with, and leaves Hank to deal with the mess.

\---

 **  
  
**

“Read my mind.”

It is days or maybe weeks later, Charles forgets exactly how long. He doesn’t sleep well these days; the hours blend together, their edges impossible to discern. He looks at Erik over the chessboard (a game which he is vainly trying to re-teach himself to play properly); Erik who can tell him it’s been three weeks since they fought, five since he woke up; Erik, for whom the days are as straight-edged and sharp as they are blurry and blunt for Charles. There’s knowledge in his face, and a desire to be disproved.

“You asked me not to do that,” Charles says, neither admission nor denial.

“And now I’m asking you to do the opposite.” Erik takes the seat opposite Charles, seamlessly taking the place of his imaginary opponent. He moves a knight into place. “Check.”

Charles considers the move for a moment (attacking, of course – a deft pin of both bishop and rook) before making his own. “I’d rather not,” he says. “Check.”

Erik takes Charles’ bishop with minimal fuss, and for a time he says nothing.

“Protect your knight,” Erik says, a few moves later. Charles mind is tiring badly – a few minutes of concentration are about all he can manage, and even that is difficult. He does as Erik asks, but it makes little difference. The game lasts only another few moves.

Erik moves rook, queen and bishop in quick succession, and Charles’ sorry collection of remaining pieces is soon surrounded. “Checkmate,” Erik announces, without triumph. It could hardly be called a contest. He sits back in his chair with a steely, knowing look that even Charles and his current impairments could not fail to decipher.

“I assume Hank was the one to tell you?” Charles asks, giving up the pretence of ignorance.

“He didn’t have to,” Erik says. “I’m not a fool, Charles. I can work things out for myself. While Hank is not the most obvious choice of confidant, he did keep that secret.”

“Then I’m sorry for doubting him,” Charles replies, and Erik’s jaw tightens. “I won’t apologise, Erik,” he continues, which only serves to bring Erik’s anger closer to the surface. Erik measures himself, though, bites back a series of angry retorts and instead only asks a question.

“Whatever it is Hank is building, will it work?”

“He seems to think so.” Charles nods. He doesn’t add that Hank has reservations; that he fears an overload of Charles’ faulty synapses. “He's having trouble locating the necessary parts, as you would imagine.”

Erik considers for a moment. “Whatever it is he needs, I'll get it. Tell him that.”

Charles draws in his breath. This, unfortunately, was exactly what he expected, and exactly what he didn't want. Erik has a way with guilt that's nearly unsettling – he’ll dive in, get lost in it, and Charles doesn’t have the strength to follow him.

“Don't, Erik,” he says, the beginning of a plea. “You don't need to fix this.”

“I don't,” Erik agrees, “but I want to.”

“I don't want you to,” Charles says, somewhat hesitant. “I don't want to be your next obsession.”

Erik is already strung tightly, but he stiffens at that, although it escapes Charles' notice.

“You need to obsess about something, Erik; you've been doing it since you were a child. Revenge or relief or answers - whatever it is you're looking for, I don't want to be part of it.”

“You’ve changed,” Erik says, and he's right and it does nothing for his guilt. “I don’t think you’d have said that to me before.”

Charles smiles sadly, because of course he's changed. This strange, misanthropic, impatient version of him does a poor imitation of the original. He had thought, however, that he was doing a decent job of acting the part of his former self.

“I'm sorry,” he says. “This is hard for me, Erik. Everything's different now.”

The tension slowly seeps away from Erik's face, leaving only guilt and something that might be pity. He flexes his fingers absently and a metal paperweight flies towards him, then drops. Charles may not be able to see the cogs turning any more, but he comes to the same conclusion in any case.

“Alright. Cerebro - that’s plan A,” Erik says, and with few short movements the paperweight returns to its place. “What if it doesn’t work? What’s plan B?”

“There isn’t one. If Cerebro can’t help, I see no reason to think anything else will. Hank doesn’t have another plan and I don’t intend to ask him to think of one.”

“So you just give up?” Erik says, and the anger starts to creep back.

“If Hank's best idea doesn't work, I doubt his second-best will be any better.”

“But you don't know,” Erik insists. “You can't just let this go, Charles.”

Charles scrubs a hand over his face and sighs. “Oh, why not? I'm tired. I'm always tired. What would you have me do?”

“There's another telepath. Shaw's woman. Let's get out of here and get her.”

“I don't want that woman in my head.” The mere thought is anathema to Charles. “What would stop her making things worse?”

“I'd kill her if she did,” Erik says, and Charles has no reason to doubt him.

“We don't even know where she is. The CIA might have let her go by now. Or she could have escaped. Found someone else to follow. Shaw's dead, Erik. Can't you let him go?”

“This isn't about him.”

“Of course it is. It will always be about him, unless you learn to let go.”

“Charles...”

“If she can help me, that's a bonus, but you want to find her because he's still there, in the back of your mind, laughing at you. Because you're stuck in this house - you hate it here, of course you do - and you think somehow you still have something to prove. But he's dead, Erik, and he's not laughing at anyone.”

“Charles, _stop_.”

“If you want to go, my friend, then go, but please don't pretend it's for me.”

Charles breathes heavily, exhausted. Erik’s eyes are dark with anger as they glower out at him. There’s silence for a long, awkward moment and then Erik reaches forward and starts resetting the chess board.

“Pick up your king, Charles,” he says, and his tone leaves no room for argument. “We’re not done yet.”

\---

  
Improbably, Hank's new Cerebro is soon finished. It helps that Erik will often disappear for an hour, or a day, and come back bearing the exact thing Hank is missing. Raven, whom they occasionally send out for supplies, informs them that all talk in town is of a spate of local thefts, which more or less explains most of the pieces' origins. When confronted, Erik mutters something about doing what he has to do and shrugs unapologetically. Hank proclaims his project finished on a wet Thursday night, after a solid week of tinkering with the systems. By now, what Hank has taken to calling Charles' ‘situation’ is no longer a secret, although out of courtesy everyone besides Hank and Erik feign their ignorance. In any case, Hank invites both Erik and Charles down to see it at their earliest convenience.

Erik is all for going immediately, but Charles frowns and tells him to wait until morning.

The new Cerebro looks decidedly homemade, with its jury-rigged electrics and pilfered parts. Although Erik himself lifted the overhanging panels into place, but as much as he knows they're sturdy, he still feels uneasy standing beneath them, precariously balanced from the rafters.

Hank makes a few small adjustments, frowns at a malfunctioning dial, and takes a few measurements before he even seems to notice that he is not alone.

“Charles!” he exclaims, and it echoes in the cavernous space. He looks happier than he’s been in a long time.

“It looks wonderful.” Charles beams, and again it’s the best he’s felt in a long time. Erik crosses his arms across his chest, mistrusting, but they barely notice. Hank babbles on about the improvements he’s made at a speed that Erik can’t keep up with.

“Well, should we, um, begin?” Hank points towards the centre of the room, where a raised platform holds the headpiece, much like the original. The design is slightly refined, however, and what was a helmet is now a slim circlet (something about conduction, Hank had said at the time) with far fewer wires. Charles slips it on with the same aplomb as the first time, and Hank takes his cue and flips the switches.

Cerebro wheezes to life with a groan that betrays its make-do origins. Hank flinches at the sound, but Charles still seems animated enough, tapping his foot against the platform and smiling reassuringly.

“Well, turn it up, then. I’m ready.”

Hank nods, and turns the largest of the dials peppered across the machinery. The mechanics whir and buzz, and although Charles gasps (neither pain nor pleasure, but a strange mix of the two) Hank immediately relaxes.

“Anything?”

Charles shakes his head.

“Let’s give it another minute.”

They do, and another few after that, but Charles doesn’t feel a thing.

Nobody is exactly sure when things start to go wrong, just that they do. The whir becomes a high whine, and there’s a loud crack as something snaps inside the machine. Charles stumbles and has to brace himself against the barrier to keep from falling. Erik starts toward him, yelling at Hank to _turn the thing off, for god’s sake,_ but by the time he gets there, Charles seems to have recovered. The noise stops and Charles looks around dreamily.

“You’re bleeding, Charles,” Erik says, his eyebrows furrowing. Charles looks confused, but Erik gestures to his face and sure enough, when Charles puts a hand to his nose his fingers come away bloody. He doesn’t seem to mind, though, just wipes the blood away and gives a gentle smile.

Hank rushes over, all repent. “Are you alright? I’m so sorry, Charles, I didn’t... I mean, something must have been wrong. I’m sorry.”

“You mustn’t be, Hank.” Charles smile grows a little wider, but there’s something unsettling about it. “I can hear you again.”

 **  
_three: all i am is the bones you made for me_   
**

The happiness at Charles’ apparent recovery lasts a scant few hours before it is shattered. In retrospect, given their record with luck, it shouldn’t have surprised anyone. But it’s like a pall has lifted, when Charles emerges from the basement and triumphantly informs Moira that yes, it worked, without her saying a word. She beams, and Raven pulls him into a hug while Alex and Sean hi-five behind her. Even Erik cracks a smile for show, although his face quickly relaxes back into a frown. Nobody wants to ruin the moment, though, so they ignore Hank’s obvious confusion about _how_ it worked, and Erik’s questions about whether it really did.

Beyond that moment of joy, not much of the routine seems to change. Alex and Sean still train (amongst his other pursuits, Hank has provided them with updated versions of their suits, to replace the destroyed ones, and Alex’s control grows day by day), Moira and Erik spend the entire afternoon bickering, and Hank sequesters himself away in his lab. Charles spends most of the day with Raven, who informs him that now he’s better she’s allowed to be angry with him for not telling her there was a problem.

“It was only so you wouldn’t worry,” Charles tries to explain, but Raven crosses her arms, having none of it.

“You should have told me.”

“Fine. Next time, I promise you’ll be the first to know.”

Somehow, that doesn’t help.

And as it turns out, next time is a lot sooner than Charles would have liked.

The house falls quiet, as it does in the evenings, and Charles (who still, he finds, tires inordinately easily) settles himself in bed with a book. Since Cuba, reading had been a challenge – he’d become distracted easily, forgetting what he had read a few seconds before, or else he’d look at the page and find himself unable to understand a word of it. This evening, however, he gallops through the book at an incredible pace, turning page after page. Hours pass and he just can’t bring himself to put the thing down.

“Erik,” he says, when the clock reads a little after midnight, “if you’re coming in, come in.”

The door swings open and Erik steps in. Charles smiles and puts down his book.

“Good to see you reading again, Charles.”

"Yes," Charles says, and smiles. "I'd rather missed it." He puts the book down carefully and sits forward, feeling a faint sense of embarrassment over conducting a conversation in his pyjamas. "What can I do for you?"

"Nothing much," Erik says, taking a seat on the edge of the bed. "Just seeing if you were feeling alright."

"Oh, not you as well," Charles says with mock exasperation. "I've already had to force Raven to stop asking me how I am every ten seconds, don't tell me I have to do the same to you."

"I know," Erik says, with a rare laugh. "Raven was the one who asked me to come."

Charles laughs with him. "My sister. At least you could never accuse her of not caring."

"You certainly couldn't."

A frown crosses Charles' face briefly. "It was never supposed to be like this, was it?"

Erik shrugs. He sites himself on the bed a little more securely, loosely twines his fingers together. If Charles didn't know better he'd say he almost looked relaxed. "What do you mean?"

"Us. All of us, stuck here in this house. Raven has never liked it here, you know. When we were younger she used to live for the times we'd take trips away."

"We're all feeling claustrophobic," Erik admits after a beat. "We did what we had to, to escape. I don't think anyone thought we'd be here for this long."

"Here is safe," Charles insists, although after all this time even he is starting to wonder whether the CIA haven't just about given up on finding them. "But you have a point."

"We've been talking for weeks about getting out there, seeing what's going on," Erik suggests, because as little as he wants to admit to it, being stuck here is getting to him even more than it is to everybody else. Captivity, no matter how comfortable, is never something he has suffered well. "Now that you're back to your old self, it might be possible. Let everyone stretch their legs."

Charles considers it, _um_ -ing and _ah_ -ing his way through the thought process, but finally he seems to agree with Erik.

"It could be useful." He seems a little lost in thought, so Erik lets him continue. "Some of the things they've been saying on the news..."

"Our species will always need protection, Charles. This is our chance to be part of it."

That brings Charles out of his thoughts with almost startling speed, because (as much as Erik still seems relaxed) there's a a sharp, pitted edge to his voice that Charles doesn't like.

"We'll have to be careful," he says, trying to reel it back. "Just because we can't see the danger doesn't mean it isn't there."

"Of course," Erik agrees, sounding practically thrilled to agree with someone for once, and Charles relaxes by degrees. "We could send someone first - Raven would blend in well, of course - and take it from there." In all honesty, Erik is more excited by the fact that there is a plan rather than the plan itself. Anything other than spending his days pacing around the house is surely an improvement.

"We'll talk about it in the morning," Charles assures, and his fingers come to rest on Erik's shoulder - a goodnight gesture, mostly. Erik looks back at him, and there's a brief, silent exchange between them as Erik moves in closer.

He never gets there. He's close, close enough to share the same air, close enough to see the light in Charles go out in the blink of an eye. The look in Charles' eyes - bright, keen, warm - disappears in a moment, replaced by a familiar and utterly forbidding blankness.

"Erik," he says, in hushed, fearful tones. "It's quiet again."

It feels like a punch in the gut to Erik, and it can only be worse for Charles. Tears well up in Charles' eyes and seem to spill of their own accord; he doesn't make a sound. Erik does the only thing he can think of in that moment and wraps his arms around him - Charles collapses into his chest like there's nothing else holding him up. Erik feels him strain against his arms as he tries to reach out with his mind, over and over, and hears him whimper each time it doesn't work.

Charles falls asleep, eventually, improbably, and Erik leaves him while he is still able to force himself to do it. He walks back across the house, a walk that seems ten times longer than it is, and by the time he reaches the room, he’s made up his mind.

He leaves most of the room (for it was never truly _his_ ) as it is – he doesn’t bother to pick up a book from the floor or make the bed, just throws a few things into a bag and ignores the rest. His helmet, only gathering dust until now, comes down from the shelf where he left it and settles under his arm. He’ll need it where he’s going.

\---

When Charles wakes, it’s early, and a few weak shafts of sunlight are the only illumination in the room. His head is pounding worse than it ever did before, and it takes a minute for him to realise that Raven is by his bed, through the fog of pain. He sits up a little too quickly and yelps, hands flying to hold his head.

“Charles!”

“I’m okay,” he says, holding up a hand. “I’m fine; I just need to not move for a while.”

“You’re not fine, Charles, just _look_ at you.”

He shushes Raven, who complies reluctantly, and stays still, head bowed over, for a long time as she sits patiently beside him. Eventually, he looks up, though he winces at the light and shields his eyes. Eventually it settles somewhat, and he manages to smile weakly at Raven, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. Charles looks around the room, moving slowly, but is unsurprised to find Raven is the only one there.

“Erik?” he asks, although he knows the answer.

“Gone,” Raven confirms. “I’m sorry, Charles.”

Charles shakes his head gingerly, gives a sad little smile. “That was to be expected.”

“Where will he go?”

Charles knows exactly; he can almost see it in his mind – the CIA facility where they are keeping Emma Frost, the doors breaking away from their hinges with a triumphant turn of Erik’s wrist.

“Anywhere,” he answers cryptically, instead. “Everywhere. It hardly matters.”

Raven looks at him like she pities him and he tries to tell her to stop but the pain flashes again and instead, he ends up with Raven’s arms around his shoulders, an attempt at comfort, as he whimpers. He expects the pain to fade as it has before, but instead it just keeps coming. After a while he’s vaguely aware that he’s crying, again, and judging from the sounds reverberating in his skull, so is his sister.

Eventually, thankfully, the pain rolls back to a sharp ache behind his eyes. Raven lets him go, tears still streaking down her cheeks, and tries to meet his eyes, though focusing is difficult for him.

“We’re going to work this out, Charles,” she promises, and he nods. He doesn’t believe her in the slightest.

She leaves reluctantly, casting worried glances at him as she goes. Charles rolls away from her, the last of his hope seeping away.

\---

Erik kills his first man two nights after leaving.

He hasn’t gone further than two or three towns over from the house, planning, biding his time. He’s about to set out in earnest, but before he does he stops at a bar, a reasonably crowded place where nobody notices him slip on to a stool and order a beer. The bartender turns the radio up – something about another protest, nothing Erik hasn’t heard before.

“Crazy, huh?” the man on the stool next to him says. “All these protests, y'know?”

  
“Yes,” Erik agrees, “I suppose so.”

“Jack Ridgewell.”

“Max Eisenhardt,” Erik replies, his favourite of his many aliases.

Erik isn't quite sure how he manages to end this exchange by standing over Jack Ridgewell's broken body in a dirty alleyway, just that the rage comes in a blinding flash and demands to be indulged. The two things he does remember: one - he did not throw the first punch; two - when it was clear how this particular battle would end, the human did not even have the decency to be afraid. When the anger started, and the metal started to shake, he laughed, and regrettably, from that moment Erik knew they would not both be leaving the alley.

When he checks Jack Ridgewell’s pocket and finds the CIA badge (real name: Marcus Tulliver), things start to make eminently more sense. This close to the city, with the trouble New York has had – it’s unsurprising they’d send someone to scout the area. Erik wonders if Marcus Tulliver ever realised how close he was to them. He pockets the badge, along with the twenty dollars he finds in Tulliver’s other pocket.

  
He leaves the body where it dropped, gets into the car, and disappears again.

\---

The search for Emma Frost ends almost as soon as it begins. Erik reaches Virginia after a week and a half of travelling, thinking it’s as good a place as any to begin, and she is in his head almost immediately, giving him directions. He’s almost impressed with how easily she locates him, and even more so that she manages to do it from a hundred miles away.

He takes a bus, steals a car, even walks a little of the way, and makes it by nightfall. The rest is easy.

The helmet slips over his ears easily, moulds itself around his head with barely a thought. There are guards, of course, and plenty of them, but they all have guns and belt buckles and badges for him to play with. He’s almost disappointed with just how easily he manages to reach the basement. He had honestly thought they would have put up more of a fight.

The hallway is dark, half a dozen thick metal doors lined up in a row. Erik wonders how many of those doors have people waiting behind them, but as it turns out, all but one is empty.

Emma is waiting for him, patiently sitting on the bench. She shifts into diamond immediately. Erik is unsurprised at this – they each have their own defence mechanisms. The helmet tightens protectively, just a little.

“That doesn’t belong to you,” Emma says, gesturing to the helmet, and it tightens a little more.

Erik shrugs. “Its previous owner hasn’t needed it much recently.”

“So they tell me.” Erik thinks he detects a hint of sorrow in her voice, but she hides it well. “Where are your little telepath and his friends?

“Otherwise occupied,” Erik says, and Emma narrows her eyes, unimpressed with his explanation. He continues anyway. “Charles is having some... difficulties. I thought you might be able to help.”

Emma smirks at the realisation. She has something Erik wants, and that’s never a safe place to be, but in this instance, it gives her the upper hand.

“How touching. You made a friend – or maybe more than that? Wouldn’t have thought you were the type. Doesn’t matter. No pleasantries, though?” she says, rather enjoying the look of frustration that flashes over his face. “No, Sebastian always said you were the straightforward type.”

Erik bristles. “He didn’t know me.”

“If that’s what you’d like to believe.” Emma shrugs. There isn’t much light in the room – just a fluorescent bulb, nothing else – but for a moment Erik finds himself watching the way it refracts off her diamond shoulders. Her eyes go from Erik to the doorway and back again. “Why should I help you? I could just walk out of here. You’d never find me.”

“You could,” Erik concedes, and it’s his turn to wear that smug little smile. “But I doubt you’d get far. The last time we met, you ended up here. All the metal in this building – of which there is a lot, incidentally – answers to me. Would you like to see what I can do with it?”

Reluctantly, with a petulant glare, the diamond disappears. That seems to please Erik.

“I’m asking for your help, I’m not saying I trust you.”

“Fine,” Emma says, defeated. “I’ll help you...” Erik begins to smile, but it drops away when she keeps speaking. “On one condition: you help me first.”

“This isn’t a negotiation,” he growls.

“Everything’s a negotiation. You want my help, fine. I want something in return.”

Erik grits his teeth. “What is it?”

The smile doesn’t reach Emma’s eyes, but she looks triumphant nonetheless. Erik can see how he’ll regret this later: the tug-of-war for power that will accompany every decision. He doesn’t care.

“Sebastian had a lot of enemies,” Emma begins. “Yes, Erik, that’s right, you weren’t the only one. Now that he’s dead, there are people who want to make things... difficult. You help me get rid of them, and I’ll help you with your telepathic problem, if I can.”

It doesn’t sound wholly unreasonable. “How many?”

“Just the one, to begin with,” Emma assures him. “You’d like him, actually. Donald hated Sebastian. He always thought he should be in charge of the Hellfire Club, and there were a few who agreed with him. His death ought to bring the others in line. If it doesn’t, there may be one or two more.”

Erik always was an excellent weapon. Perhaps he was foolish to think he was ever more than that.

“I’ll do it.”

“Of course you will.” She sounds too pleased, and he doesn’t like it. “You’ll do whatever you have to, won’t you?”

“We should get out of here,” Erik growls, ignoring her.

“Why, Erik, I thought you’d never ask.”

\---

“He shouldn’t be using it again.”

“If you didn’t want him to use it, Hank, you shouldn’t have fixed it for him.”

“He _asked_ me, Moira _._ What was I supposed to do?”

“You could have said no.”

“I should be in there. Something could go wrong. He should at least let me check the telemetry, the circuits...”

“Leave him. It’ll be fine. With everything that’s happened... if he needs to feel better for a little while, we should let him.”

 _Everything is fine,_ Charles sends them, like a disapproving parent, and there’s possibly nothing stranger than having him back in their heads after such a prolonged absence. He stays there, a mild tickle, faintly reassuring.

“He’s not using it correctly,” Hank still complains bitterly. “He’s supposed to be training his mind so he’ll be able to function without Cerebro.”

“Hank, for god’s sake, leave him be.”

Hank crosses his arms huffily, muttering under his breath. Moira hears _should listen to me_ and _potentially dangerous consequences_ but before she has a chance to think about it, she feels Charles slip from her mind, as sudden as the flip of a switch. From looking at him, Hank feels it too.

Charles emerges a minute or so later, looking as exhausted as ever. The bags under his eyes have grown lately, and he’s lost weight he didn’t have to spare, but he’s grinning.

“No blood this time,” he declares, and Hank declines to mention that he’s fairly sure it will come later. “And yes, Hank, I did the exercises you left.”

“How far did you get?”

“I stretched as far as was comfortable. Two hundred miles, perhaps? I think it could have been Boston.”

“Any mutants?”

“Just the three in the house.”

“Alright,” Hank says, although he looks disappointed. “We’ll try again tomorrow.”

Charles nods happily, although his smile is a little less bright; Moira can almost see the temporary high flowing away from him. “If you’ll excuse me,” he says, “I’ll try and sleep a little before dinner.”

“It’s not working,” Hank sighs, when Charles is out of earshot. “He’s not getting any better.”

“Give it time. This is only the second time he’s used it since the accident.”

“And the first time, the effects lasted for hours. This time, it was gone as soon as he took off the headpiece. And _two hundred miles?_ For someone like Charles, that’s myopic.”

“Give it time,” Moira repeats. “Let him try again.”

“He shouldn’t. It’s... he could...it could overwhelm him. He’d become dependent on Cerebro.”

Moira looks at him dolefully, as if she wishes she could share his denial. “Oh, Hank,” she says, instead. “He already is.”

\---

Everything goes well – or as well as can be expected – for a while, but when things start to get worse, it happens fast.

Ten minutes of Cerebro a day (to do a few exercises and ease Charles back into the process of telepathy) becomes an hour, becomes two and then five. Each time he emerges a little more tired, a little more unhappy. The initial euphoria he gets, that rush of minds washing over his own, disappears more and more readily. He's getting further, Hank asserts, getting better at using the machine, but that doesn't make anyone happy because as soon as he takes off the headpiece, it's all gone.

The side effects are brutal. The pain, which never really subsided after that first, terrible night, always gets worse immediately after a session, and while it fades eventually, before it does it seems almost unbearable. But it's more than that. There's memory loss, sometimes, a low-grade forgetfulness that never quite subsides, but while it's annoying, that's not what Charles finds the hardest. What’s the worst is the numbness. He can react to a situation appropriately, in the way that someone should, but it takes him a second to search for the correct emotion from his memory and create a suitable imitation.

In short, most of the time he feels nothing at all. When he does, it is brief, but disabling in its intensity. Perhaps foolishly, he doesn't tell anyone about this particular symptom, not even Hank. He fooled them all for long enough before, would have continued to if Erik hadn't figured him out. With the way they all look at him now, pity mixed with the relief that it's not them, he thinks there are some things it's better for them not to know. In any case, nobody knows what to say to him anymore, so they simply tend not to. Hiding things from them is too easy.

Raven attempts to press him on it every so often, probably the only one who could possibly get the information out of him, but most often she gets tired of his monosyllables and apathy and gives up. Sometimes, though, she keeps pushing.

He spends most of the time not plugged in to the machine in his study. He's mostly given up eating - everything seems to taste like cardboard anyway - and sleeping - since actual sleep so rarely comes - except when necessary, so he reads until the words blur together and dance in front of his eyes.

He's working his way along the left hand bookcase, authors A through J, and currently it's Sherlock Holmes. It's dark, and the old reading lamp doesn't give much light, but the pain of the headache is barely a pinprick added to everything else. Raven sits in the chair across from him and eyes him disapprovingly.

“You'll go blind, you know.”

“Add that to everything else.” Charles shrugs.

“You could at least pretend to care what happens to you, Charles.”

There are three expressions people tend to use around him these days, he has noticed. In the space of fifteen seconds, Raven has already checked off disapproval and worry. The third is surely soon to follow.

“I had thought I already was,” he says, and that earns him the third expression - something that he’d had trouble with in the beginning, but that he has identified since then as simple, abject sorrow.

“Oh, Charles,” she says, because if he thinks he’s fooling anyone he’s sorely mistaken.

\---

The crush of people packed into the room is incredible, really. At a guess, Erik would say there were several hundred, at least, pressed together in a great sea of humanity. It’s quite a sight.

Erik catches sight of Azazel, patrolling in the shadows. Janos is a few rows behind him in the crowd, Angel somewhere on the other side of the room.

To be honest, Erik had expected more resistance from them, his old enemy's henchmen, but when they found them, hidden away in an old branch of the Hellfire Club in New York, Azazel had offered his hand for Erik to shake without a second thought. Janos waited for Emma's nod, but he and Angel followed him without protest.

Erik feels strangely vulnerable without his helmet. He’s used to it now, as uncomfortable as it is, and despite the fact that (supposedly) the only telepath in the room is ostensibly working for him, he misses the extra protection. It would give them away, of course, and they’re supposed to be flying under the radar, but despite her assurances to the contrary, he knows that Emma would take advantage of his vulnerability given the slightest chance.

 _I know what a telepath feels like_ , he sends in her direction, the first time he feels her trying to get in. The necklace at her throat tightens with a twist of his fingers. _Don't._

She makes no indication that she's heard him, doesn't even look back in his direction, but her presence disappears from the periphery of his mind and doesn't return.

The rally itself is one of a new breed. While above ground is still dominated by the anti-mutant movement - the humans blindly swiping at what they cannot see - below has been taken over by the pro-mutant group. They're humans, mostly, or so Emma tells him, maybe a few mutants (although there's almost no telling between the actual mutants and those just pretending for the sake of it) who show a passionate indifference to the new members of their society. 'Mutants are people too,' Erik keeps hearing them chant, and he grits his teeth. Emma laughs at him, and at once he realises that she has brought him here solely because he will hate it.

A hush falls over the crowd, and Erik looks up to see a man emerge onto the raised platform set against the back wall. Tall, blond, handsome enough – but that doesn’t interest him. He’s more interested in the metal – the gun at his hip, the watch on his wrist. He can use these.

“Erik, meet Donald,” Emma whispers. “You’ll be killing him.”

He has to find a moment, though, which means he’s forced to stand through an hour’s worth of empty, mindless talk about mutant equality before he can even consider making his move. Donald conducts himself like a king holding court, and his audience is sickeningly rapturous. He mentions the Hellfire Club and Emma stiffens. Erik takes it as a cue.

He pushes forward through the throngs until he feels the metal more, and then he begins. With only the smallest of movements, the gun at Donald’s waist lifts out of the holster slowly and positions itself at his back. Erik cannot see for the people, but he can feel it, and that’s sometimes better.

The shots ring out, and all hell breaks loose.

Everyone is screaming all at once. In a moment, the crowd parts, and there is a clear path from Erik to Donald. They meet eyes; Donald grins, turns on his heel and starts running. Erik starts moving after him, all of the metal he can find flying towards the platform. Erik gets there eventually, fighting his way through, but by the time he does, Donald is gone, swallowed by the crowd.

Half a dozen humans then launch themselves at Erik.

Emma gets two of them, and they fall to the ground clutching their skulls. One has a gun, and the wideness of his eyes in the moment before Erik shoots him is almost satisfying. The gun dispatches another two, but more men have joined in the cause at this point and there are only a few bullets. Still, a loose railing he summons takes another one out, and Azazel helpfully decides to emerge from the shadows where he has been hiding to help. His blade claims more than a few. A few get close enough for Erik to throw a punch, but between the three of them, most are undone well before that. By the time they stop coming, twenty or thirty in total, Erik has lost count.

“What about ‘mutants are people too’?” Erik shouts, loud enough for Emma to hear, loud enough to say _I was right_. Someone cheers, and then they all do, and despite the fact that they lost Donald Pierce in the chaos and he has no idea how it happened, Erik smiles.

 **  
_four: this apathy you feel will make a fool of us all_   
**

As it turns out, breaking into prison is easy.

It's been a few weeks since New York, and sensibly they've moved as far from the scene of that particular crime as possible. Perhaps less sensibly, there have been several smaller crimes along the way, but they travel as an entourage now, counting those they've picked up along the way, and as much as Erik wishes his newest charges would be sensible with themselves, there is only so much he can do. They’re not stupid enough to get caught, at least.

Magneto, they call him, a nickname now stuck fast. It fits its purpose, he supposes. They speak of him in hushed tones, like he’s some kind of hero. Like New York wasn’t one of his larger lapses of judgement, didn’t blacken his conscience a little more.

This particular prison looks much like any other. Indeed, as they approach (just the five of them this time, the rest of his collection of followers kept at a safe distance), he can't quite believe it's the right place. It’s maximum security, at least, but other than that, almost entirely underwhelming. Long, low-slung buildings, high fence, double wall, guard outposts. He had been hoping for a little more of a challenge.

It looks far too normal to be housing the man they have come to find. But then, given the nature of his powers, it may well be that his captors have little idea exactly who it is they are guarding.

Still, like any other place, there are certain procedures to be carried out. Erik nods, the only command Azazel ever needs, and the guardsmen start falling from their towers, leaving only wisps of red smoke behind. When that is done, Janos doesn't take his time demolishing the walls, and the fences crumple easily under Erik's guidance. He and his little army walk in with ease. From there, it's all up to Emma. She doesn't disappoint, as usual.

Jason Wyngarde is waiting for them in the cafeteria, alone. Despite the sirens, the smashing windowpanes (Janos, having a little more fun) and the general chaos surrounding him, the man is an oasis of calm.

The others stand back whilst Erik sits down. He's trained them well enough for that.

“Magneto,” he offers, by way of introduction. “A pleasure, I'm sure.”

“Mastermind.” Jason sits back, his eyes raking over Erik like he's appraising him. The feeling is a singularly uncomfortable one. “I’ve heard of you. They talk about you on the news.”

“Excellent. Then you'll know why I'm here.”

“Nope,” he shrugs. “But I can guess. You want something?”

Erik laughs lightly. “Doesn't everyone?”

“There aren’t many people who'd break into prison for what they want.”

“I’m not most people.”

It's been a good few minutes now, and Erik wonders why they haven't yet been disturbed. He looks back at Emma, who shakes her head. They're fine.

“I've made them all think you're at the other end of the building,” Jason explains, sounding just a little self-satisfied. “We won't be disturbed.”

That makes him smile. “Well, Mr Wyngarde, that's exactly what I'm looking for.”

Jason seems interested now. He sits up a little straighter, forgoing the relaxed, uninterested posture he'd maintained until that point. Erik leans in a little.

“I'm looking to - deal, let's say - with an acquaintance of mine. Unfortunately, getting to him requires a more delicate touch than what my team here are able to provide.”

“You weren't exactly subtle getting in here,” Jason agrees, looking around at the broken glass and torn hinges. “How do I know you won't make things harder on your end?”

“If you're as powerful as I've been led to believe you are, that shouldn't be a problem.” Erik says, and Jason nods along. “Anyway, when it happens, they won't be coming with me. I'll be alone.”

Judging by the looks on their faces, this is the first the rest of his team have heard of this, but they’re too well-disciplined to interrupt.

“I won't be able to make him not see you,” Jason warns. “All I can do is create an illusion to distract him with.”

“That's all I'm asking for.”

He considers it for a very long moment. Erik watches him the whole time, can see him weighing up the options in his mind. Eventually, he sees Jason accept that this is the best option.

“Well, a man can hardly refuse a favour from the man who breaks him out of prison,” he says eventually, with a sort of resigned sigh. That and a handshake seal the deal.

“Go, and go fast,” he adds as they start to leave. “When the guards are out of range I won't be able to keep up the illusion.”

This time, Erik grins. “That won't be necessary,” he says, and puts a hand on Jason's shoulder. “Azazel, go.”

There's another puff of smoke, and they're gone again.

\---

Moira finds Charles sitting in his study, in the dark, a half-empty bottle of his stepfather's best scotch on the table beside him. She turns the light on and he flinches.

“Drinking again, Charles?”

“'Again' implies a pause of some kind.” Charles says, gesturing wildly. “I'm afraid I'm just... drinking.” He picks up the bottle and thrusts it towards Moira. “Care to join me?”

She looks at him disapprovingly, but takes the bottle anyway and takes a tentative sip. She recognises his post-Cerebro crashes well by this point, and trying to talk to Charles at this point never works - he changes direction with startling frequency, loses his interest or thread easily, and usually isn't listening in any case.

He spends most of his hours down there, cloistered away with that machine, and the euphoria he experiences afterwards never lasts long (and only fades more quickly with each use,) giving way to his more usual exhaustion and melancholy. Hank trails behind him, looking more unhappy with each use.

“How does it feel?” Moira asks, as she always does. She's yet to get a straight answer.

“Not being able to read minds, or realising that I'm apparently much more like my mother than I thought I was?” Charles' voice sounds dull, lifeless, uncaring. He shrugs, and he can barely convince himself to put the effort into that. “I don't feel much of anything anymore.”

Charles reaches for the bottle, but misses on the first try, his hand going several inches wide of the target. He gets it on the second try, refills his glass and offers Moira the bottle again. She accepts, but only to get it away from him.

“I walk into a room and forget why I did it. I look at someone I've known for years and it takes me an extra pause to remember their name,” he says, unsolicited, and it's the most honest thing he's said to her in weeks. It takes Charles a while to warm up, but once he starts, he finds it difficult to stop. She listens helplessly, as they all do, unhappy in the knowledge that there is nothing she can do. Charles looks at her, guilt etching lines across his face. “I can't remember what Erik looks like.”

Moira has no idea what to say to that, so she says nothing at all.

“I have an image in my head, but it’s all wrong.”

She puts the bottle down next to him and Charles immediately reaches for it, having given up on the unnecessary trappings of using a glass at this point.

“Tall,” she offers. “Hank’s a little taller, but Erik’s broader than Hank was, before. Handsome - square jaw, blue eyes – not as blue as yours, there’s more green in them than that.”

Charles closes his eyes. “Yes,” he says quietly, like he’s worried the image will disappear, “that’s better. What else?”

Moira spends a long time like that, thinking of any little thing she can say to add to the picture. Charles nods along and sighs from time to time, until Moira looks over to him after a long period of silence and realises he has drifted into sleep.

\---

One morning, they wake up and Charles is gone. All of his things are still there, folded neatly and left in haphazard piles around his room. The bed is made, and the taps in the bathroom are still running, as though he's just stepped away for a moment. But he doesn't return in a minute, or ten, or an hour; he isn't in the library or his study or in the basement with Cerebro.

This is when Raven starts to worry.

Or rather, starts to worry more. She's always worried about him these days - it doesn't take much to see he's struggling, of course, but with everything that's happened nobody wants to say anything, especially when the odds are fifty-fifty that Charles will either scream at them or slip just a little further away. It's such a change from before, when he was always the responsible one, and selfishly Raven wishes things could be like that again.

“He can't have gone far,” Sean decides after two top-to-bottom searches of the house, but the way he says it sounds more like he just hopes it's the truth.

They agree with him anyway, because they all hope so too.

Hank stays behind voluntarily, because obviously he can't leave, and he reasons that someone needs to be there in case Charles finds his way back, so it makes sense for it to be him.

He makes sure the local hospital has Charles' description (the police is too much of a risk, they decide, though nobody is happy about it), as a precaution, and then all Hank can do is wait. He very seriously considers smashing Cerebro into as many pieces as it will break into (he is Beast, after all) but doesn't, if only because he wouldn't be able to stand the look on Charles' face.

That is how Hank spends his day: a frayed nerve, a twist of emotion. The radio reports another riot, Chicago this time, and almost unconsciously he adds another point to his mental tally of Erik's movements. He is moving west again.

The others return as it gets dark, each one empty-handed. He's not surprised.

Sean is first, shaking his head.

“Nothing,” he says unhappily. “I even tried using my screams, y'know, to see if I could find him like that? But there were so many things that could have been him, and I couldn't check all of them.”

“You did your best,” Hank offers, but it's hollow at best and they both know it. Sean slinks away quietly.

Alex is next, all fury. He doesn't interact, doesn't even go near the room; rather, Hank tracks his progress through the house by the sounds of swearing and slammed doors.

Raven and Moira arrive back together, much later on, though they can't have been able to see a thing for several hours. Again, Hank expects this, another hypothesis (this one being on relative levels of attachment to Charles) proved correct. It seems callous, and it probably is, but as theories are all he seems good for these days, he takes what he can get. He calculates a forty percent chance of Charles' safe return; this isn't a statistic he shares.

“We'll find him,” Moira promises Raven, but she seems even less sure than Sean did.

“It's supposed to snow,” Raven says, close to tears (and Hank is surprised that it's only close). “What if he can't find his way back? He forgets things now, you know he does. What if he freezes?”

“Animals are drawn to warm places in the cold,” Hank offers, and immediately knows it's the wrong thing to say.

“He's not an animal, he's my brother,” Raven snaps at him, and he apologises sheepishly.

“I know... of course... I just meant, I thought, I don't know. I'm sorry.”

She smiles at him weakly. “I know, Hank. You were only trying to help. It’s okay. I’m just tired.”

Raven retreats to bed not long after that, and Hank and Moira sit in silence for a long time.

“He’s not getting any better.”

“No, he definitely is not.”

Another silence.

“We’re going to find him, right?”

Hank shrugs. “I don’t know.”

They don’t find Charles the next day, or the one after that, but on the fourth morning, just as they’re losing hope, he turns up in the kitchen, slightly dishevelled but otherwise none the worse for wear. He smiles absently, and when they ask him where he’s been he looks supremely confused.

“I thought I’d go for a short walk ,” he says, “I’m sorry if I worried anyone, but I really wasn’t gone for long.”

“Charles, you’ve been gone for three days.”

He pauses. “Oh,” he says, his eyes flitting over the room, never settling long. “I... don’t remember. Where’s Hank?”

“In his lab.” Where else would he be?

Charles nods repeatedly. “I’ll just go and...” he trails off, walking away.

Moira sighs when he leaves. “At least he’s okay,” she says, though he’s anything but.

“This isn’t working,” Raven says. “He’s only getting worse. We need to get Erik.”

“What could Erik do to help? We don’t even know where he is,” Moira says, although they’ve all been following the news and making mental notes of what they assume is Erik. “He might not even want to come back.”

“He’s with Shaw’s people,” Raven says, another detail gleaned from radio broadcasts about tall red men and strange cyclones. “One of them was a telepath. She might help.”

Moira looks doubtful.

“It’s the best option we’ve got.” Raven sounds like she doesn’t like the idea any more than Moira. “I’ll go. I could be back in a few days. We have to try.”

Reluctantly, Moira agrees, but only because she knows that Raven will go anyway.

\---

The human has the unfortunate distinction of being the first one to get close enough to take a shot at Erik.

It doesn't get any further than that, of course - the bullet is waved away easily, and in a couple of seconds the gun is in Erik's hand. Both Erik and the human know that pulling the trigger is the last thing he will ever do, that's just the way this goes. He might, however, help Erik test a theory first.

Erik gives the human to Emma.

“Practise on him,” he says. “Whatever it is you're going to do to Charles, practise.”

Emma isn't surprised. That ridiculous helmet stops her from getting into his mind, but in this area that isn't a hindrance. Honestly, she might think a little less of Erik if he was willing to let her near Charles without testing her first.

“He's human,” she complains anyway, “it won't work on him.”

“Make it work,” he growls, and he's still angry enough about being shot at (the principle of the thing, really, as he was never in any great danger) that she doesn't bother fighting him. “Jason! Make sure she doesn't hurt him.” Erik catches the human's eye. “We're not animals.”

Erik strides away purposefully, which is when he notices that he is being watched. He keeps walking, into the alcove that passes for an office, takes a seat, starts reading, waits.

“I was wondering when you'd arrive,” he says, when he is followed into the room. “Emma's been saying she could sense you for days.”

The woman who followed him shifts into blue before his eyes; a moment later he’s looking at Raven, her yellow eyes staring reproachfully back at him.

  
“It took longer than I thought,” she concedes. “I found you eventually.”

  
“You did.”

Erik frowns suddenly. He stands, slips off his helmet and holds it out to her. She takes it, but doesn't put it on.

“I grew up with a telepath, Erik. I know how to shut them out.”

“You know how to shut _Charles_ out. Emma isn't nearly as considerate as your brother,” he replies, and at least he looks like Erik now, without that ridiculous thing on his head, but he still doesn't sound right. “She knows what I'll do to her if she tries to get into my head, which should stop her from trying for at least a few minutes. You don't give her the same problem.”

Raven frowns at the thing, heavy in her hands, but against her better judgement slips it on. It's far too big, and exactly as heavy as it looks. Erik almost smiles.

“It hurts,” she says, adjusting it a little. “Don't you get tired?”

“Of so many things,” Erik replies. “You get used to it.”

“You need to come home, Erik.”

Of course, he already knew that this was what she came to say.

“I can't help him,” he replies, and as unhappy as he sounds, it’s not a ‘no’, so that’s a start.

“You couldn't make him worse.”

Erik frowns. “How bad is it?”

“After he gets out of Cerebro, he’s fine,” she starts, and the crease in Erik’s brow deepens at the mention of Hank’s infernal machine. “For a while, anyway. Then it’s like someone switched a light off inside him or something. He never complains, but I know it hurts him. And he forgets things, Erik. He went outside and didn’t come back for three days because he couldn’t remember where he was. He didn’t even know how long he’d been gone for.”

“We’re getting closer,” Erik offers, because he has nothing to say to that. “This whole thing – I’m looking for someone. We made a deal. I help Emma with her problem, and she helps Charles.”

Raven nods, and neither of them are happy about it but it’s the only option they have.”It’s been _weeks_ , Erik. Months, even. You haven’t seen him. I don’t know how much longer he has until he can’t be helped anymore.”

Erik understands perfectly; she wouldn’t have come all this way for nothing. “We’re getting closer,” he repeats.

“Good. Do it faster.” She hands back the helmet and shifts into another disguise. “I’ll see you when you get there.”

She walks away from him, and he lets her. By the time he checks on the human, a few minutes later, she is gone.

\---

They finally locate Donald Pierce again about a week and a half later, when they follow a lead to DC and Emma gives Erik the all-important nod. She’s able to find him with relative ease this time, as he seems to have given up on the shielding that has hidden him from them all this time. Erik finds this suspicious, of course, but he’s impatient enough not to care and just cocky enough to decide it doesn’t matter.

They leave Azazel and the others at a safe distance, and Emma brings Jason and Erik to a building in a derelict block by the river. It doesn’t seem right, seems too easy and too clichéd, but she points upwards and swears he’s there.

“Thirteenth floor. He’s alone.”

Erik processes the information, formulating an attack. “Mastermind,” he says, “how close do you need to be to him?”

“How close do you want me?”

“Take the service elevator to the eleventh floor, then get as close underneath him as you can. Will that work?”

Jason contemplates the building for a second, measuring it by eye. “Ought to be fine, long as I can get a lock on him. Where is he?”

“The north-west corner,” Emma supplies. “More north than west.”

“Alright. Give me five minutes, then go for it.”

Erik does exactly that. He waits with Emma, watches as Jason disappears around the corner, and starts counting.

“You should let me come in with you,” Emma says, for something like the fiftieth time. She doesn’t enjoy being kept out of this operation. “Sebastian would never have gone in alone.”

“I’m not him,” Erik growls, and grits his teeth. “Stay out here.”

Emma pouts at him, but he ignores her. The sooner he gets this over, the better.

“That’s five minutes,” she says, as if he didn’t already know.

Erik nods wordlessly and makes for the door.

He takes the elevator to the tenth floor and walks the rest of the way. He isn’t sure what he’s expecting.

The thirteenth floor is one long room, furnished in much the same manner as the outposts of the Hellfire Club that Erik has seen. That explains that, at least.

Donald Pierce sits in the furthest corner, a pistol on the table in front of him.

“Hello, Erik,” he drawls, sounding amused. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

Erik’s brow furrows and Donald gives a short laugh. “Take a seat.”

Slowly, and with an abundance of caution, Erik does.

“It was a nice idea, the illusionist. Not something I would have expected from you. He’s very good.” The corners of his mouth curl into a snide smile. “I’m better.”

“You knew we were coming.”

“Well, of course I did. Do you think you’d have been able to find me if I hadn’t _let_ you?” Donald taps his temple, manic grin still spread across his face. “I have my own ways of fending off unwanted intruders. Thankfully, none of them involve your ridiculous headgear.”

The frown stays steady on Erik’s face. “I’m going to kill you.”

“But we were having such a nice conversation.” Donald laughs. “I know that’s why you’re here, Erik, I’ve known that since that unfortunate business in New York. Frankly, I’m tired of running from you.” He motions to the pistol between them. “Take it. I won’t stop you.”

The gun floats effortlessly into Erik’s hand and points itself between Donald’s eyes.

“I can see why she chose you,” he says, entirely unperturbed. “What did she tell you about me? I’m betting you don’t even care. Get in, get done, get out, right?”

The gun lowers fractionally, and Erik's frown deepens.

“What are you talking about?”

Donald's eyes train themselves on the gun and stay there, but he shoots a few amused glances at Erik. “You mean you haven't figured it out yet?”

The gun straightens again.

Donald rolls his eyes. “Alright. She's using you; I'm sure you've worked that out by now. Emma has hated us all for years. She wanted us all out, whether we were loyal to her precious Sebastian or not. Those of us who won't go quietly, she wants to get rid of. She'll keep his pets - the red one, and the one that barely speaks - but the rest of the club, she'll remake in his image. That's where you come in. Our White Queen needs a new king, preferably as close to the old one as possible, and she's chosen you.”

“I'm nothing like Shaw,” Erik says again, and the safety flips off.

“And yet here you are, standing in his place. You've filled it well,” Donald says, and maybe it's supposed to be a compliment but by the way Erik’s expression hardens, he doesn't seem to take it that way. “I don't fear death, Erik. Spare my life and I'll gladly serve you, but I wouldn't blame you if you chose not to.”

Erik seems to be genuinely contemplating the decision.

A moment later, the shot rings out.

Erik emerges from the building a few minutes later, Jason following close behind. Emma looks at him expectantly but he keeps his eyes pointed down.

“It’s done. Let’s go.”

\---

Two days later, Erik arrives back at the house in a puff of red smoke. Besides Azazel, he only brings Emma; he leaves the others back in Washington and tells them not to expect his return for a while.

“Stay nearby,” he instructs Azazel when they arrive. “I’ll need you to take Emma back to the others at some point.”

“ _Da._ ” Azazel nods, and vanishes.

Erik starts to walk towards the house and Emma follows him.

“It’s nice,” she says, sounding like she’s surprised by it. “But then the Xaviers do come from money, don’t they?”

Erik utters something unintelligible in reply.

“Just because this part of our journey is over doesn’t mean you have to be rude, Erik.”

“I fulfilled my end of the deal,” he says as he rings the bell. “Now you fulfil yours.”

It takes a long time for anyone to come to the door, long enough that if Erik didn’t know they had to be there, he might have given up. Eventually, though, Hank answers.

“Raven said you’d be coming,” he says, and turns and walks back into the hall. They follow him cautiously. The house is quiet, no signs of life whatsoever.

“Where is everyone?” Erik asks, and he doesn’t like this at all.

“They’re out looking for Charles,” Hank replies, looking genuinely apologetic to have to be the one to tell him. “I’m sorry, Erik, but you’re too late.”

\---

 _  
Six weeks later   
_

_“They found him wandering along the road a week ago. He doesn’t know his name, or where he came from.”_

 _“What about the police?”_

 _“We gave them a description; there hasn’t been a response.”_

 _“Well, he must be someone. Keep looking.”_

 _“Yes, doctor. Of course.”_

 _The person in the bed looks like Charles Xavier, but really he is not. Perhaps he was once, but that was a long time ago, before so many different things. Now the only thing left of that is a vague pain behind his eyes that presses on him every so often. He listens to them talk about him like he’s not there; they sound distant and gargled, like he’s underwater and they’re above the surface, or maybe the other way around. He waits for someone to come and sit next to him and ask his name, as they have done numerous times since he was brought here, as if somehow this time he might know, despite all evidence to the contrary._

 _The moment doesn’t come, though, and he feels somewhat alarmed by its absence. Instead there are two new voices – male, he suspects, although they’re too far away for him to get more than the tone of their voices. They come closer and clarify a little more, a matching pair - tall, broad, dark suited, very official-looking._

 _“This is him?” one asks, but doesn’t wait for an answer before sitting next to him. The other scrutinises him closely and nods._

 _“Mr Xavier,” one says, although they both blend together in his mind and he can’t quite tell which one it is. “I’m Agent Casper; this is Agent Bryson.”_

 _The agent grins, and he doesn’t like the darkness behind it one bit._

 _“You have no idea how long we’ve been looking for you.”_


End file.
